


like a renegade

by wraysford



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Blowjobs, Hogwarts AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 07:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1770496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraysford/pseuds/wraysford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Really, Max shouldn’t have anything to do with Jules at all. He’s a Chilton, for crying out loud. The family name is virtually synonymous with Slytherin; he’d barely had to place the Sorting Hat on his head before it had barked out the house. And well, it doesn’t do to be seen fraternising with Gryffindors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a renegade

**Author's Note:**

> Written for therosea as part of the understeers fic exchange.

Really, Max shouldn’t have anything to do with Jules at all.

He’s a _Chilton,_ for crying out loud. The family name is virtually synonymous with Slytherin; he’d barely had to place the Sorting Hat on his head before it had barked out the house. And well, it doesn’t do to be seen fraternising with Gryffindors, particularly not the Mudbloods. Bianchi’s parents are Muggles, Max knows, vaguely remembers Maldonado getting detention for shouting as much during a Potions lesson in First Year after Jules demonstrated an inability to even light a cauldron. It hardly helps that his best friends are Hufflepuffs of all people, that Pic boy with the vacant expression and Grosjean, who has the school record for Whomping Willow incidents.

And true to that, this _thing_ had started with Max saying, hotly, “This isn’t even your bathroom!” and “This is the _Prefects’_ Bathroom, you’re nothing more than a Quidditch Captain, I hardly think that makes you _worthy,”_ and, “Get out!” as he frantically scooped foamy lavender bubbles onto his lap to protect his modesty and the Gryffindor who had so rudely interrupted his bath just stared at him, and he had made three subsequent and unsuccessful attempts to appeal to Hulkenberg, the Head Boy, to have the rule allowing Quidditch captains access to the bathroom repealed. But then there had been three or four more accidental encounters in that bathroom, and eventually Jules had just drawn his knees up to his chest under the water, and said, cheeks faintly pink, “You can – we can just share, if you want.”

And so by now muddied scarlet and golden robes scattered on the floor next to their neatly folded black and emerald counterpart, Prefect badge placed carefully on top, are a familiar sight.

Max’s father would hate him for it.

But then Max likes to think that he’s nothing like his father, and it’s difficult to hate Jules when he’s pressed against Max in the water, licking into his mouth.

He’s just back from Quidditch practice, and his mouth tastes a little stale and his skin is tacky with sweat, but Max is kissing him back anyway. His hands are resting on Jules’ hips, Jules’ own either side of him against the edge of the bath, and it’s quiet save for the rush of the water from the taps and the tiny whimpering noises Jules makes in the back of his throat when Max bites down on his lip. There’s the occasional _swish_ noise as the mermaid in the glass window flicks her tail, eyes averted from the two of them as she combs through her hair.

They’ve been in the water for a while, long enough for the skin on their fingertips to wrinkle, and Max is starting to get restless. He’s never been patient when it comes to getting what he wants; when he was a kid he just had to pull on his father’s sleeve and he’d get the new broomstick or owl he wanted. Now, it’s difficult to stop himself from sliding his hand across from Jules’ hip to reach for his cock or pull him closer so that they can rut together.

They’re not competitive, or at least they don’t try to be, but they’re Gryffindor and Slytherin. Max can’t pretend that he doesn’t feel a little victorious when Jules is first to arch his back and cry out as he spills into Max’s hand, even if Max is usually only seconds behind him.

So he frowns when Jules pushes him away with a palm, not ungently, and says, “Sit up.” Jules doesn’t notice his expression for a moment, preoccupied with staring down at his own hand against Max’s chest for a few seconds, biting his own lip, and then his gaze flicks back up to Max’s.

“I mean, do you want to...” he trails off, blushing - and then he’s sliding to his knees in the water.

And _oh_ , thinks Max, nearly stumbling backwards in his haste to sit up on the edge of the bath, because they’ve never done this before. It’s only when Jules glances up at him and laughs nervously that he realises he must have said it out loud.

And he says it again, louder, “Oh,” when Jules wraps his fingers around Max’s cock.

It’s slow, at first. Jules’ hand that isn’t on Max’s cock comes up to rest on his thigh, fingers splayed out wide, and Max shuffles forward a little more so that Jules can stand closer between his legs. It all feels oddly formal, organised, and it’s Max’s turn to huff out an awkward little laugh when he catches Jules’ eyes again.

Awkward but not _uncomfortable_ –  not like it will be if they cross one another in the corridors tomorrow and both pretend like this didn’t happen, ignoring the way their respective friends glare at one another.

Max lifts a hand from where it’s tightly gripping the bath’s edge to curl it around the back of Jules’ neck, fingers threading into the damp hair there. He rubs awkwardly at the nape of Jules’ neck. There’s a brief moment where Jules leans into it and then he takes a deep breath, one that Max feels warm against his inner thigh, and lowers his head. He laps tentatively at Max’s cock once, twice, before closing his mouth around the tip.

Max hears himself gasp involuntarily, hips stuttering forward, the sensation simultaneously too much and not at all enough: he feels detached from himself and so wholly, intimately aware of his body at the same time, and Jules isn’t doing anything more than just sucking slowly on the head of his cock.

“Jules,” he says, voice higher than he’d like. “Fuck, Jules.”

Jules pulls off briefly, smiling shyly at Max – and it’s so incongruous with what he’s doing that Max would laugh if thought he had the breath for it – as he slides his hand up and down a few times, slicking Max’s cock up with the precome leaking from the tip.

He tugs at Jules’ hair as Jules leans forward, Max past his lips again. His face is flushed red, creeping up his cheekbones, and there are bubbles in his damp dishevelled hair and water dripping down his shoulders. Max isn’t supposed to find him attractive but he doesn’t see how anyone couldn’t right now, not if they had Jules’ mouth wet and hot and soft around their cock, tongue licking up the length of it before curling around the head again, swallowing uncoordinated around him. It’s unpractised and sloppy but Max doesn’t know and wouldn’t care if he did, too busy pulling at Jules’ hair and groaning.

It’s overwhelming, completely so. Max thinks he’s going to come right there and then if he doesn’t stop looking at the way Jules has his eyes closed and his mouth is stretched red around Max’s cock. Jules opens his eyes then, too, pupils blown dark and wide, looking obscene –

A pink-coloured bubble floats over and pops on Jules’ face.

It breaks the tension, at least. Max snorts as Jules scrunches his nose up, pulling off Max’s cock and looking adorably confused. But even he has to start laughing after a few seconds, rubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand self-consciously.

“Turn it off,” he says, voice roughened. It’s a combination of yelling at his team in practice to dive just a little more for the Quaffle and having Max’s cock down his throat. “It’s you that likes the bubbles.”

“Shut up, the rose ones are yours,” Max insists, but he’s shifting back on his hands even as he speaks. His wand has rolled a little distance away, and he has to stretch out his fingertips to reach it – and immediately almost drops it, because Jules has started to nose at his thigh. 

He doesn’t bear look down until he’s managed, “ _Locomotor tap_ ,” voice shakier than he’d like, and then he’s dropping the wand almost as quickly as he’d picked it up. He grips tightly onto Jules’ shoulder instead, but Jules winces, shaking him off and leaning forward to show him a black-and-blue bruise.

“Perez missed a Bludger,” he says, ruefully.

Max rolls his eyes. He shifts his hand back to Jules’ neck anyway. “No wonder you lost to Hufflepuff last week.”

Jules sticks his tongue out at him, childish, and Max is about to say as much when there’s hot breath across his cock and that same tongue goes back to lapping at it.

The next few minutes, or maybe longer, or maybe merely seconds, are a blur of Jules’ humming around his cock and Max’s hands scrabbling in his hair and groans that could be from either of them as Jules takes him deeper.

And once he recognises that familiar heat pooled low in his stomach Max barely has time to groan out, “I’m going to come. Oh god, Jules, I’m going to –” before he _is_ coming, the accidental scrape of Jules’ teeth across the underside of Max’s cock as he pulls back but not off enough stimulation to have him  moaning and coming.

When he opens his unfocused eyes again Jules is licking absently at the corner of his own mouth, come dripping down his chin; Max’s softening cock gives a feeble twitch. There’s a brief moment of silence, Max’s heavy breathing and a slight cough from Jules as he swallows again the only exceptions, and then someone giggles delightedly.

“Well, you two are much more interesting than that Weasley with the glasses, he never gives me a show.”

 “Myrtle!” Max splutters indignantly, splashing back down into the water; Jules just blinks the water droplets out of his eyes and laughs, embarrassed.

 


End file.
